


More Than Words Can Say

by jat_sapphire



Category: Battlestar Galactica (1978)
Genre: M/M, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-20
Updated: 2019-05-20
Packaged: 2020-03-08 18:53:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18900592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jat_sapphire/pseuds/jat_sapphire
Summary: A mime gives Apollo a headache.  Starbuck helps him feel better.





	More Than Words Can Say

**Author's Note:**

> This is so old that I don't remember the challenge it responded to, but I know the mime was my idea.

Boxey and his current best friend, Hunter, charged into Apollo's quarters the moment the door slid open, as if the safety of the whole Fleet depended on their being inside Boxey's room within the next three microns.  Apollo raised his eyebrows at Starbuck but didn't really mind:  he was at a loss to understand why watching the silent motions of a mime at their Aquarian classmate Sherii's birthday party had prompted the two boys to be so much noisier than usual.  It was a relief when they disappeared at last and the closed bedroom door slightly muffled the sound. 

Apollo dropped onto his lounge seat and pinched the bridge of his nose.  His head ached.  "How can one children's party--and not even Boxey's!--make me feel like this?" 

"Gettin' old," Starbuck answered, and that tone of voice so obviously went with his widest felgar-eating grin, fumarello clamped between his teeth for good measure, that Apollo didn't even need to look. 

He looked anyway.  Starbuck was leaning against the edge of the dining table, out of the way at one side of the room.  His arms were folded and his lean body as gracefully placed as if--well, as if he were another one of those damn mimes, draping his body against a wall that wasn't even there.  A recessed fixture shed light on the table behind him, outlining his hair with gold.  The fumarello was just a prop, unlit and wagging a little as Starbuck shifted his jaw and looked back at Apollo. 

A whoop came from Boxey's room.  Apollo rubbed one temple, closing his eyes. 

The cushion beside him sank, and Starbuck's leg nudged his.  "Really hurts, huh?" 

"No," said Apollo irritably, "I'm just miming it." 

"Very lifelike," Starbuck said, and if there was anything beside amused approval in his voice, Apollo couldn't hear it. 

He got to his feet, this time really not looking, and went into his own bedroom to find the analgesic he kept there, out of Boxey's way.  Fumbling with the cap, he got the vial open at last, tipped out one of the slimy no-water-needed capsules and choked it down, trying not to think about how it felt sliding down his throat.  He was setting the vial down when he heard the door close, the lock make its characteristic sound--he turned in surprise to find Starbuck with his hand still on the lock pad. 

"Bucko," he said, recognizing this grin too.  The fumarello was gone.  "Boxey's right nex--" but now Starbuck was close in front of him, the tips of his fingers warm and firm on Apollo's lips, cutting off his objections.  "I've got a--" he tried again and was again cut off, Starbuck's eyes even more full of mischief at the cliché so nearly spoken. 

One wrist, then the other, was enclosed in a strong grip, pulled up and then pushed back as if pinning Apollo against the wall, except that it was really a good four feet away.  Starbuck let go;  Apollo let his arms sag;  Starbuck splayed his hands in the air, a clear **_stop_**.  Apollo raised his hands again, though he knew he was no good at acting. 

Starbuck had said so the **_last_** time he'd had a game he wanted to play. 

But now Apollo was trying, pretending, imagining the hard bulkhead against his shoulders and arms, cool on the backs of his hands and where his sleeves slipped away from his wrists--no, wait, his wrists were supposed to be tied or shackled somehow.  He sighed at himself for getting the image wrong, though Starbuck probably thought it a response to the hands now on Apollo's ribs, his waist, his hips, touches that wouldn't be nearly as sexy from anyone else, or even from Starbuck when he didn't have that look on his face, or that slight blush glowing from forehead to collar--or this look, now, leaning forward and nudging under Apollo's jaw to put one tender kiss after another on his neck.  The rough-soft, bright-dark hair rubbed Apollo's chin, and his lips parted, wanting ... wanting ....  His arms, which had begun to ache anyway, dropped and his fingers buried themselves in that warm mop.  He meant to pull Starbuck's head up and kiss him.  Apollo needed that kiss;  desire for it throbbed in his temples with his quickened pulse, in his throat when he swallowed, and in his cock as it hardened. 

But Starbuck tugged the groping hands away, leaned back and looked reproachful.  Ironic, Apollo thought, that reproach was one of his friend's most effective expressions, but perhaps he'd learned it from all the people who'd had reason to reproach **_him_**.  He drew Apollo's arms down and back, held him close as if for a hug, crossing the wrists against the last knobs of spine.  Shifting one foot and then the other a little farther apart, Apollo let his head fall back and his eyes shut to say **_yes_**.  Yes, he knew this fantasy, and yes it excited him, particularly now that the bonds only existed in their silent agreement to imagine them.  He smiled as the warmth of Starbuck's body left him, knowing he was being stared at, picturing himself helpless, bound, blind, his neck bared--and just as he was thinking he wasn't really very exposed, he felt a fluttering, tugging movement on the closures of his jacket, and then the flap was drawn aside and the air brushed him.  A gust of Starbuck's breath struck his bare chest, and then a warmer, wetter touch dotted him, randomly under his collar bone, below one nipple, on his moving adam's apple, on a floating rib. The jacket was all the way open now, hanging down on both sides, and there at the waistband of his pants, nimble fingers squirmed in and rubbed back and forth. 

Apollo clenched his teeth, waves of arousal surging through him, the cloth of his pants pulling, tightening. 

Starbuck opened and pushed the pants down far enough for a draft to tickle across the top of Apollo's buttocks.  Hot and cold, urgent and still, as nothing happened for several microns except, apparently, more staring. 

Someday Apollo would have to turn the tables, he thought as Starbuck tugged the pants down lower still, around his thighs, and then moved back again.  Bound in fantasy, half-naked, erection nodding as the fumarello had in Starbuck's teeth, trembling a little with a thudding heartbeat, flushed, a trickle of moisture slipping down to his hip, where it was licked up--Apollo gasped at the touch.  Yes, yes, he would have to do this himself.  It might even be worth not looking into Starbuck's eyes to see him like this. 

It might be worth the silence. 

Apollo's next indrawn breath, a sigh, surprised him.  He always thought he was satisfied with their on-and-off arrangement, until suddenly even the on times felt as if they were not on enough.  He didn't want to raise the subject himself, break through the boundary between them that felt like a force field, like the one that shuttered the Galactica's bridge view.  If he spoke, it might collapse inward, shattering, or let in a light too bright for living eyes.  He would not speak, but he wanted to hear Starbuck. 

He **_could_** hear Starbuck now--not words, but the thud of his knees on the deck, a thread of voice like a hum, the parting of wet lips to take in Apollo's cock.  The sound of sucking.  Oh, Sagan, how that felt. 

Drawing like a magnet, like gravity, like the lost moons of Caprica, moving like an ocean, rocking back and forth.  The shaggy, gilt-touched head moved while strong hands held Apollo's hips in place.  Apollo whimpered, felt his throat open and knew he could be silent no longer-- 

\--and heard Muffit yelp, the boys' voices rise for a moment. 

He wanted to laugh, to cry out, to beg and squirm.  Instead he pressed one wrist into his mouth, bit down on his own sleeve, and grunted into the improvised gag, swaying and feeling an electric rush from the soles of his feet to the ends of his hair. 

He was in free-fall;  Starbuck caught him, pulled him down until they sat together on the floor, and kissed his numb and swollen lips lightly, softly, persistently as rain. 

A natural force, Starbuck. 

Apollo hooked two fingers into his lover's collar, still decorously fastened.  There was a look in Starbuck's eyes that was unfamiliar. 

"How's the headache?" he asked, voice rusty--which was absurd as they could not have been speechless for more than a few centons. 

Apollo shook his head, staring.  "You, you never undressed.  Did you come?" 

Starbuck laid a finger across Apollo's mouth.  "Don't tell," he murmured.  "Ruin my reputation." 

"Oh, I hardly think it would do that--" Apollo enjoyed the sliding touch as he spoke around Starbuck's finger, until it slipped away entirely-- "But now I owe you one." 

The felgar-eating grin was back on his best friend's face.  "I know where you work," Starbuck said.  "I'll collect.  With interest." 

There was more than one obvious response, but Apollo said nothing, shaking his head again. 

Before standing up, Starbuck pulled Apollo's jacket closed and stroked once more across his lower lip. 

Apollo sucked in the fingertip and bit down gently.  Then let go. 

Getting to his feet, Apollo put his clothes back together, and they went to see what the boys were doing.  They bantered and joked, as always, but nothing else got said that evening.  



End file.
